


Another Kind of Stitches

by Twelve (Dodici)



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Missing Moments, canonical zoldyck awfulness, it's basically a jumble of stuff from different arcs, the cheesiness is over 9000, you could read it as friendship but Togashi would be disappointed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dodici/pseuds/Twelve
Summary: It’s a matter of morbid curiosity, loose screws and finding that one person who gets it.
Relationships: Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Comments: 12
Kudos: 97





	Another Kind of Stitches

**Author's Note:**

> *strolls in two weeks later from the wrong time zone* so, this thing was technically written for killugon day one with the prompt scars, but I blatantly failed to post it on time, rip.  
> Please watch out for wonky grammar, overwhelming cheesiness and canonical Zoldyck awfulness.  
> Take care <3

Three targets just as planned and Illumi killed the first and Killua killed the other. The third one dodged because Killua wasn’t fast enough.

Now the guy is dead, like every target is always meant to be, but he left a stinging cut on Killua’s forearm, not larger than his own finger. It doesn’t exactly hurt and the blood has stopped flowing already to gather in dark, irregular bubbles between the wrinkled hems of the wound. 

“Leave it alone, Kill, or it will scar.”

That’s new. Killua is five and pretty sure of his vocabulary at this point but some words still elude him.

Illumi is looking at him with his big irises, and he’s not going to talk if Killua won’t ask.

“What’s a scar?”

Illumi tilts his head, a couple of hairs sticking out on his forehead like antennas. Sometimes he looks like a giant cockroach, the long ones that are so shiny and sleek; scarcely ever he looks relaxed, like now that they’re just sitting and waiting for grandpa to wrap up the job.

He leans his head back on the chimney, legs outstretched while Killua waits too, his own crossed and claws still picking at the crusted blood on his arm.

“It’s when an injury heals. The skin grows on it differently than the rest. There are various types of scars. Taking notice of them can be useful to identify a target, for example, since they’re difficult to replicate.”

Killua nods. Sometimes, just sometimes, it would be good if Illumi wasn’t always teaching him something—but Killua gets it, really, he has the most fun with Alluka and he likes to teach stuff to her, so maybe Illumi likes it too. That’s good. Killua still hasn’t quite grasped what Illumi actually likes, since he’s really good at his job but doesn’t look like he’s having any fun while doing it—that’s why Killua isn’t allowed too.

“But that never happens,” Killua says and he’s still studying his own arm, to search for other traces of past wounds. He gets a lot of those, but they always fade fast on his skin. “Like, never.”

“That’s because us Zoldykcs are different, Kill,” Illumi tells him, with his serious eyes, so big and sure, like he’s actually reading from some kind of secret book that has all the answers—Killua would like to get a peek inside it too, but maybe you get to unlock it when you’ve reached some kind of training milestone. Illumi is the eldest, after all.

“How so?”

Illumi lifts one hand and Killua keeps real still for a moment, wary—Illumi won’t hit him. There’s no reason right now, even if Killua screwed up during the job. But they aren’t training, they’re just waiting. Even if sometimes Killua really feels like he never stops training ever.

Illumi’s bones creaks, his veins bulge as the claws come out.

“We come from a family of assassins. Generations and generations of them. So we’re different. Our bodies are stronger and heal faster and better.”

“That’s why I don’t scar even when you hurt me?”

Illumi looks perplexed—that’s a first.

“I don’t hurt you, Kill. I train you.”

“Sure,” Killua says, and frowns because he thought those were somewhat synonyms but maybe they’re not. He’s still picking at the wound's edges. “So that’s why.”

“Why so interested?” 

Killua’s eyes widen. Illumi questions him about stuff constantly, but very rarely he's led by genuine curiosity instead of the need to test him on some subject.

This time, it seems like he wants Killua’s opinion. That must be another first—only Alluka wants to know what Killua really thinks about stuff. Sometimes grandpa, but grandpa is a weird guy.

“It’s just… It’s different, like you said." Despite the sparkle of excitation, that’s Illumi and Killua’s stomach feels the need to say something to please. Or at least something that won’t get him in trouble. “But it also seems… I mean, sometimes it’s weird, isn’t it? That you hurt so badly but then it’s gone, just like that.”

“Weird, you say… I’d say it’s convenient,” Illumi tells him. He almost— _almost_ —smiles. 

Killua is so shocked that he forgets what they were even talking about in the first place, and then grandpa hops up from the chimney sporting a scold. The tips of his mustache are black from the coal; he sighs and cleans his ear with a pinky finger, unhappy when he pulls it out and it's black too.

“I swear your father knew this would be a pain and dumped it on me on purpose… I hope you cleaned up your messes, kids,” he adds, his eyes two slits as he glances at Killua’s arm. He hides it fast behind his back, but Illumi has already placed a cold, long hand on his shoulder.

“Killua missed his first shot. It won’t happen again, right, Kill?”

“No, I swear.”

“We will make sure it won’t happen again,” Illumi repeats, like he hasn’t heard him at all, stare blank, and Killua feels the wound, and his head, pulsing with what’s going to come. 

*

Gon heals faster than anybody Killua knows.

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

“Well, you are the same as me!” he says, and he’s still doing vertical push-ups on that arm that was supposed to take four months to heal. 

Killua sighs and kicks the door close behind him. The vending machine didn’t have any chocolate, so he had to stick with boring cheese puffs—Gon likes those, so it’s kinda okay anyway.

“So, some more days and we can start pestering Four-eyes again to train us.”

“Since I’m fine maybe we could ask him to train us now? I mean—”

A cheese puff hit him exactly in the middle of his forehead.

“Idiot! He didn’t wait because you were hurt, he did it because he wanted to make a point! Just because you’re healed already it doesn’t mean that you’re not grounded anymore—”

Gon has fallen down, back onto the floor.

“You’re right I guess.” He jumps up and, really, it’s pretty impressive. But Killua should have known, since Gon is pretty impressive overall; he’s seen him taking showers or change clothes, and there’s not even the tiniest scar on his body despite having for sure survived every kind of deadly accident even way before the Hunter exam. Gon is incredibly sturdy. Maybe even sturdier than Killua himself, and all that without having generations of assassins as a backup or surviving a gruesome training or… He didn’t need any of that. Like being Gon must be enough. 

It would be infuriating if it wasn’t also one of the things that make him so interesting. 

“Don’t overdo it, you moron,” he finds himself telling him, because Gon is already back at doing push-ups. Killua frowns, plopped on the bed; he offers him the bag of snacks and that idiot starts walking on his hands to reach it.

“Don’t worry, KiIllua! I’m all better now!” Gon says, and digs a hand inside the bag to stuff a bunch of cheese puffs inside his mouth, cheeks swollen like those of a frog.

He is. He is healed and—Killua was the one who talked to the doctor, because Gon was too dizzy from the pain, even if stubbornly refusing to pass out.

Killua was the one who talked to the doctor, the one who memorized the list of fractured and cracked bones, collected the prescription for painkillers and rest. They’re still on the nightstand, the painkillers, bottles sealed. They must be as much of a foreign concept to Gon as they are to him and Killua finds himself contemplating the oddness—why someone like Gon, who could choose not to hurt, chooses to hurt instead.

Maybe he should ask—but how do you ask stuff like that. He isn’t five anymore, Illumi kinda beat his ‘why’ age out of him with the sheer force of his deadpan expression at any of Killua’s questions.

He considers Gon’s candid face as he chews, still standing on both hands.

When he starts coughing, Killua has to manually turn him with his head up so that he doesn’t choke on the cheese puff like the self-destructive moron he is. 

*

For a second, the possibility is almost exciting—maybe Killua’s got something wrong inside that stupid brain of his; maybe every Zoldyck does. It must be their genetics: retractable claws and loose screws, sounds about right.

Since there aren’t enough Angel’s Breaths, Killua’s hands are going to stay that way and maybe—maybe—Gon’s Hatsu will finally be enough to leave a trace. Something permanent, something that’s going to be there and say ‘you did this thing, this thing was done to you’. The idea is somewhat appealing, in a morbid way; Killua is a morbid person. What's new.

But then Goreinu decides to act all illogical about it and Killua gets his hands back in working order—and it does feel nice. Scratching at his nose was starting to become hell, after all.

“It’s good to have hands, isn’t it?” Gon too is flailing his newly healed arms. They grin at each other as Bisky hits them right on top of their heads.

“You’re a couple of deranged self-destructive morons.” She looks ready to just slam their skull together. Instead, she sighs and pats them on the shoulders, and holds tight. “I love you both _so much_.”

That doesn’t stop her from kicking Killua in his shin when he fakes a gag, Gon’s laugh sparkling in his ears.

*

Sometimes Gon feels a weird prickling in his right arm. It isn’t even pain, not exactly, but the startling feeling of something attached that isn’t supposed to be there. His mind can’t really make peace with the fact that the arm was there and then was not and then was back there once again.

He flexes his fingers, frowning at the slight sense of detachment. He doesn’t remember that something like this happened when he lost his hand fighting with Genthru, even if it was just for an extremely painful half-hour.

“What’s up.”

Killua’s weight comes joining him on the boat with a clean leap. It should swing like crazy, but Killua can still be as light as he was when they were children, even now that his body is all lean muscles hidden under the fabric of another one of those colorful, too-big t-shirt that he pulls out from his tiny backpack like a magician. 

He settles on the other side of the boat, balancing out Gon’s weight. The sunset is just starting to catch fire over the horizon and his hair looks a fiery orange.

“Mission accomplished?” Gon asks, with a smile. Too good; having Killua there, at arm's length, is always so good that he almost feels scared.

“It was too easy, Alluka is dying to get rid of me these days.” He rolls his eyes, but Gon knows that there’s always a pang of genuine apprehension at the thought; it breaks his heart a bit, that Killua can’t really seem able to realize how important he is for the people who love him. Like Gon didn’t just strategize an entire plan so that he could spend an evening alone on a boat with him. “Anyway, she’s going to do girl things with your mom and Abe, whatever that means. They didn’t even ask what we were planning, Alluka almost kicked me out of the house… It’s going to be fine, anyway. She likes Mito a lot.”

Gon grins.

“Well of course, Mito is great.”

Killua hums in acknowledgment, still studying him. Gon has gotten back to rub at his arm, prickling sensation too persistent to be ignored.

“What about that?” Killua asks, tilting his head to look closer. And Gon grimaces at another weird jolt of uneasiness from his shoulder down, not much different from the one that’s crawling up his stomach. But the new policy is to ask—and to answer. They tell each other stuff; Leorio made them _promise_.

“It’s just—sometimes my arm feels weird. Like. I mean, I’m happy to have it back, I’m happy I’ve been healed—”

“But?” Killua says, saving him from the hardship of having to challenge that assumption—Killua saving him, that was a good thing. Gon is grateful. He swallows.

“But it’s also wrong. Sometimes, it feels wrong that it’s just—that I feel so well. That there are no consequences at all, and I mean, yeah, I miss my nen but this is different and… Like there should be at least some mark or, I don’t know, some kind of scar maybe?”

“You’re right, it used to bother me a lot,” Killua says, so light. Like he’s talking about the weather, and Gon shuts up, because that’s it. That’s one of the new things, Killua volunteering any kind of information that isn't just useful to the mission at hand. Killua volunteering information about what he thinks—how he feels. And maybe Gon took advantage of Killua’s bashfulness before; he could just keep going, that’s what he did. Now that faculty has been revoked, for Killua to grant him a way more critical privilege instead.

“I mean, if you don’t even have the scars to show for it—did it even happen? Maybe it would feel better, having something real to talk for it, instead of just having it stay inside your head.” He frowns, and that slight blush definitely isn’t the sunset's fault. “Maybe it’s weird, though.”

The boat swings under Gon’s legs as he launches himself forward—he just. He wants to be closer, okay? Just a little, a touch of knees, a bit of elbow. They’ve been separated for another bunch of months and those too have left some invisible scars inside Gon’s brain. Every time internet betrays them and their calls get interrupted right in the middle; every time one of Gon’s text message or emails fails to send; every time airships and boats or even Godspeed still aren’t fast enough for them to keep in contact. Not as much as Gon would like, anyway.

“It’s not!” The boat swings as he grasps at it. “It isn’t—or maybe it is, weird. But it’s—I get that, you know? So we can be weird together!”

Killua’s eyes get so, so big—right before narrowing in slits as he bends forward to laugh, hair brushing against Gon's knee.

He hums again when he recovers his breath, still chuckling.

“Yeah,” he says, and comes to sit closer, to bump into Gon’s shoulder; the boat swings again. “I don’t mind that.”

There’s a glow inside Gon’s stomach, warm and bubbly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Killua repeats, and pushes.

When Gon’s head comes out of the water, sputtering, Killua’s laugh is still lighting up the dock, and it sounds like healing.


End file.
